Andrew Vachss - Down in the Zero

"Don't worry about it."

"I'd like to whip her fat ass. That'd be fun, but there's no market for it."

"What about— ?"

"Nobody wants to see fat people being disciplined. They have to look good. And young.

"I guess you'd know."

"I'm a pro," Fancy said, turning her head so she could watch me.

"What can I get you?" she asked over her shoulder, crossing the threshold to her house.

"A glass of water."

"That's all?"

"Yeah. I don't have much time."

She moved off. I closed my eyes, playing the tapes of my conversations with the parents, mentally engraving the notes I hadn't taken. My eyes were still closed when I heard the click of high heels on the hardwood floor, quick and close together, thinking: Either a short woman or a real tight skirt . It was both. Fancy, in a French maid's outfit right out of a porno movie. She had a glass of water on a wood serving board. She bent down, holding the serving board in both hands, just the trace of a smile on her lips.

"I always wanted to try this on," she said. "You like it?"

"It's very pretty."

"Pretty? I'm pretty— this is sexy.

"That's true."

"Wouldn't you like a maid of your own?"

"Sometimes…I guess I would."

"Here's your chance, mister."

"Not now," I told her. "I have to go.

Her gray eyes darkened. Sadness, not anger. "It's too good to rush–rush," I told her softly. "I'll be back."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"What about tonight?"

"I'm meeting some people. Late."

"Going back to fuck that sow?"

"What if I was?"

"I could come too. Did you ever— ?"

"I'm not going there. It's business."

"Can't you come back? After?"

"It'd be way late. Three, four in the morning."

"That's okay."

"You sure?"

"Yes. I helped, didn't I?"

"You sure did."

"Well, if it's business, it's this business, right? Couldn't you come over, tell me about it?"

"All right."

She dropped to her knees, resting her chin on my knee. "Tell me to stay here," she whispered. "You know how to do it. Please."

I slapped her face, a short, sharp slap. It was louder than it was hard. "Stay here, bitch," I told her. "Don't leave. Right by the phone. I'll call you when I'm coming. And you better answer on the first ring."

"Yes sir," she said in a choky voice.

The kid was working on the Plymouth in the garage. He had the back end jacked up, the rear tires off. I wasn't worried about him finding the false bottom to the trunk— even the ATF had missed it once.

"What's going on?" I asked him, stepping out of the Lexus.

"I'm cleaning the tire treads," he said. "I tested it earlier. She corners better with forty–five pounds all around. You know you were only running thirty?"

"Yeah. Too much pressure and it rides like a truck."

"Sure, but for the race…"

"Okay. That's fine. However you want to do it."

The kid busied himself, intent. I lit a smoke, figuring out how to do what I had to do. First rule, get the other guy in a place where he's comfortable. Relaxed, so the knife goes in easier. I thought of taking him into the kitchen in the big house, where he couldn't hide his face. But when he had his hands on the car, he was a different kid, so maybe…

"Randy," I said, playing the long shot, "your girlfriend Wendy, how come you didn't tell me she was pals with Lana Robinelle?"

He dropped the tire pressure gauge, whirled to look at me, blood flooding his face.

"How did you…?"

"You haven't been leveling with me, kid. Maybe not from the very beginning."

"I was! I mean, I told you the truth. Just…"

"Just what?"

He stood up, walked over to where I was standing. His hands were shaking, but he met my eyes. "I knew Lana…tried to kill herself. Before. A couple of times, even. Everybody knew it, at school and all. I tried to talk to Wendy about it, but she thought I was an asshole. A tanker, you know?"

"So when you called me…"

"I was scared. That was the truth."

"But not scared for you, huh?"

"I guess I was, maybe. I don't know. The hospital. My mother told me once that she'd send me there if I didn't straighten up.

"But you're eighteen now. An adult, right? She couldn't make you go.

"Nineteen," he said. "But you don't know her."

"Never mind that now. Just give me the whole story."

"I was at a party a couple of months ago. She…Wendy was there. She doesn't do dope, but she drops acid sometimes— it's coming back in now, a lot of kids do it. She was out in the back, on the lawn. Tripping. She got real scared. The rest of them thought it was funny, her jumping around and all. I…held her. A long time. When she stopped, she was dreamy. Spaced out, I guess. She told me she saw Lana. She was happy. Lana, not Wendy. Happy where she was."

The kid took a breath, still on my eyes. I could feel him willing me to understand how bone–deep important this all was to him. "I got…terrified. You see it, don't you? She was going there. With Lana. But the more I told her it was crazy, the more she said I didn't understand. I stayed with her, that whole night. She has her own car, but I wouldn't let her drive. When I took her home, it was light out. Her father was there, waiting up. He blamed it on me. Told me if he ever saw me around her again, he'd kill me.

"I couldn't call her on the phone. And I don't see her in school anymore. She sent me a letter. A poem. It wasn't a sad poem, like I expected. It was…I don't know, gentle. I read it and read it. But when I got it, I got scared. It's about dying, Burke.

"I watched her house. At night. The police stopped me one time. They were gonna take me in, but then they found out who I was. Who my mother was, really. They called her and she came and got me.

"Wendy found out. She told me it was sweet, what I did. But it didn't matter. She wasn't going to go until she was ready.

"I saw her a lot, after that. Different places. She was the only one I ever told about racing. She said that was my poetry, driving.

"Then my mother went away. For the summer. Right after that, Wendy told me. Her parents were gonna put her in Crystal Cove, to get her some help. She promised to stop the acid–tripping, but they didn't believe her. That's when I got so scared. That's when I called you. I thought you could…save her. And I could…help, like."

I felt it. So deep I didn't know there was such a place in me. This rich, spoiled kid. This punk I thought was a herd animal. I never saw anyone so scared for someone else, reaching outside himself like that, trying to pull her in with him.

"Come on, kid," I told him. "We got work to do before it gets dark."

We took the Miata. The kid knew about Chalmer's Creek, got us there in a flash.

"What's here?" he asked.

I stood at an outcropping of rock, looking down at the blue–black water. "This is where Lana Robinelle went over," I said. "Drowned."

I picked up a heavy rock, held it in two hands. Dropped it over the side into the water. Watched it disappear, the circles spreading out from the center, wider and wider, reaching.

"What's it look like to you?" I asked him.

He looked down, eyes following my pointing finger. "A bull's–eye," he said.

"You're in it now," I told him on the drive back. 'That's what you wanted, right?"

"Yes."

"All right, kid. First rule— you don't talk. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Anybody you talk to, regular?"

"Just…Wendy."

"Nobody knows your secrets? Not your mother? Nobody?"

"Nobody."

"Okay. Keep it that way. Meet me at the garage tonight. Eleven o'clock. We're gonna do some work."

"I'll be there," he said, face set in harder lines than I thought it had.

Back in the apartment, I found the microphone and pulled it loose. Whoever set it up would have to come back. I checked the rest of the place. Couldn't find anything new.